


Victory

by stephanericher



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 17:03:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5710180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you going to crown yourself king?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victory

Dark power hums through the palace like a multitude of lightsabers, tangible and welcome and dark, clear as a shadow at high noon, clear enough to reach out with the Force to touch—much clearer than it’s been in months, since before he’d even heard about that damn map on Jakku. It’s like pure poison, almost choking as it grows, as he tries to contain it within himself—he passes some sort of fleeing servant and slams him into the wall with the Force. The crack of breaking bones against the stone wall is satisfying—not enough, but something, as he lets the energy take hold in him.

The sinister undercurrent—fear, anguish, panic, despair—has been present since they had arrived on Naboo a week ago, the fleet making no attempt to disguise their allegiance as it had landed. The Naboo are peaceful, stupidly so, enough for their weapons to be of no use against the shields, enough for them to hesitate and delay while the Order grabbed a foothold. And yet the people had known the inevitability of it all; they had known this time there would be no Republic fleet to come and help them, and no Resistance, either. Ren had felt the break coming, could smell the fear and confusion in the atmosphere, just a hint of what was to come. And when it came, when Theed had finally fallen, the darkness had descended like an avalanche, bathing him in its coldness.

Another wave of anguish ripples through the Force, and Ren’s cape flutters around his ankles—they'll have killed the king, then. He’d watched Hux stride off to the throne room, finally tearing off the last pieces of that husk of uncertainty that had been plaguing him since Starkiller, that which he couldn’t quite stomp out underneath his foot—his own and others’ in him. And he’d taken command, as if pulling energy from the air and into every forceful step, every collision of his boot with the ground. He is fighting the battle he was raised to win, stepping into the position he has been trained to fill, a highly specialized machine recalculating and recalibrating every gram of power he accumulates.

Behind the next pillar, Ren senses a weak presence. His lightsaber hums to life in his hand; Hux is not the only one wielding power right now.

* * *

 

“Congratulations on your victory, General.”

Hux turns around; the fuzzy glow of the late-afternoon sun through the throne room window illuminates his frown. “It’s not yet complete.”

“Are you not assured of it?”

“We cannot afford to assume such things.”

The pronoun, Ren supposes, includes himself—for a brief moment he is annoyed, angry, but then just as quickly it ebbs away from him. This isn’t Starkiller; he has very little stake in anything here. Hux does, and he intends to dig in his claws until he’s choked every Resistance threat out of the planet in that ruthlessly efficient way of his, until it’s been reorganized and assimilated, another card in Snoke’s hand. Hux is still looking at him, studying his posture—in the Force, he still feels powerful, but he’s containing himself. Ren reaches up to find the catch in his helmet and then releases it, pulling it slowly from his head.

The air is cool; it smells faintly of blood. Without letting his eyes leave Hux’s, Ren walks over to join him. Below the window, a few troopers patrol, stopping every few seconds to scan the still-unfamiliar courtyard. Ren lifts his free hand, bringing it to rest on the small of Hux’s back. Hux shifts ever-so-slightly closer.

“Are you going to crown yourself king?”

Hux snorts, vaguely aristocratic already. “I doubt I’d be of much use to the Order in that position. And it would be far more acceptable to the people of Naboo if one of their own was a puppet monarch.”

There are very few stars visible this early in the evening, especially with the glow of the city below them. No, Hux is more suited for a backdrop of space, the smattering of stars upon stars upon stars so thick it might be black on white instead of white on black—and though there is power here, to be king would not be nearly enough to sate him.

The distance between their mouths is a handful of centimeters, easily crossed. Ren lets the feeling of mouth on mouth, teeth on teeth, tongue on tongue, overwhelm him; Hux’s fingers are curling around his ears and jaw and the two of them soon pressed body to body. Hux’s thumb brushes the tip of the still-fresh scar across his face; Ren shudders with the sensation and forces his tongue deeper into Hux’s mouth. He tastes like licorice and salt and raw power, full and dark and staining like an ocean of ink.

When they stop to catch their breaths, Hux’s hands remain on Ren’s face, the leather of his gloves slightly cooler than the air. For this brief expanse of time, Hux has forgotten himself—his duty, his work, his role—and he simply drinks Ren in, not bothering to appear dignified as he regains the rhythm in his lungs.

A knock sounds at the door, and the moment cauterizes itself. Hux withdraws and dusts imaginary lint from his coat; Ren lifts his helmet back up to his head. The manifestation in the Force outside the room is unobtrusive, holding the neatly-packaged and somewhat smug signature of a mid-ranking officer.

“Yes?” Hux barks.

“Sir, reporting from all precincts.”

Ren closes his eyes as he pops the helmet back on, flipping the catch as the seal hisses shut.

“Very well,” says Hux.

“Sir, the access code—”

Ren reaches out with the force, jerking the door roughly—enough to open it momentarily for the officer, who enters holding a datapad. Hux’s Force presence is stirring once again, the rhythmic grind of gear-teeth as he begins to plan and analyze, before he even begins to read. When the officer catches sight of Ren, a streak of fear cuts across his face and mind, and behind the mask Ren’s mouth is already curling into a sneer.

“Anything of note, Vice-Admiral?”

“Nothing other than what’s on there, Sir.”

“Fine. Leave us.”

He turns and leaves, pace just a little too fast, to the smallest hint of disgust on Hux’s face before Ren releases the door behind him.

“You’re not leaving him in charge here.”

“How much of a fool do you take me for? We have numerous others who are more—suitable.”

He’s surveying the datapad, analyzing whatever the hell’s on there, already half-distracted. Ren places a gloved hand on his shoulder; Hux turns back up to face him, finger hovering over the screen.

“Shall we, General?”

“Yes.”

They walk toward the door, falling into step together. There’s a faint smile on Hux’s lips, only just visible, the feeling behind it barely palpable in his Force presence. This time Ren opens the door more smoothly, and as they step out into the buzzing noise of the palace hallway the smile disappears, replaced by Hux’s delicate mask of neutrality. They part ways at the next corner, and Ren watches him go—the steady set of his shoulders, the perfect posture, the power gathered around him like a magnetic field.

**Author's Note:**

> happy 'kiss a ginger day'
> 
> also this was an excuse to write the theed palace throne room /shrugs


End file.
